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"uncle"
I just lost my mind a minute ago.
No joke in that.
For some reason I had, what I can only describe as a panic attack. Now I'm sweating cold bullets and shaking. Paralyzed.
I have no idea why this is happening. I'll probably regret writing this later. But right now I feel like I'm losing my rivets.
-------
I wrote this earlier this morning. Clicked publish. Then immediately went back and unpublished it. Now I'm writing it again. I just hope this time I have the nerve to let it go.
This post is the white flag to myself. I'm saying "uncle". I give.
Earlier when I was going through the "attack", I knew what the problem was. I just didn't want to admit it. Not to Leslie, not to the folks I work with, not to you, and definitely not to myself.
It's now time I square up. I'm experiencing a full blown depression. It's not the blues or a bad Monday. This is the kind of thing I used to take a full boat of medications for. The kind of thing we used to have line items in our budget for. The kind of thing that almost took my life.
I haven't had to deal with "It" on this level for several years. "It" was in its proper place. Buried.
Saturday's ice storm, and resulting loss of electricity for the day was the metaphor needed to bring "It" to the surface again. Cold. Gray. Hollow... Powerless.
This morning when I got to work I came unglued. Complete with walking into walls, sitting at my desk in a fetal position, and trying to piece together how the hell I was going to get through the next five minutes. "Full goose bozo" as my office mate would say.
Even as I write this, I'm sweating, shaking, and confused. I'm holding back a whole slew of emotions.
All in all, I realize that right now, I'm powerless. That's hard to take.
There won't be a pity party. I won't be in this "black hole" for long. I just had to get this out. Thanks for letting me unload.
1/31/2005 09:54:05 AM
The "B" Word - 2 -
Cutter Tom seems to be a great American badass. Complete with the ZZ Top beard, the ink, the wallet on a chain, the snub-nosed shitkicker boots, the Skynyrd shirt, and the buckle. Like Roy, he too is in his mid 50's, but has a younger, sort of sly quality about him.
I'm making Cutter Tom sound sinister. He's really not, but I can tell he's "been in the trenches".
Cutter Tom is friendly, in sort of a disaffected way. Personable, but not.
He also had a rather unique cadence to his speech. I'm not really sure how to explain it, but he would add EMPHASIS and a pause to his speech at odd points during conversation. Not that I go looking for that kind of thing, but with Cutter Tom it was very noticeable. He'd also repeats various words randomly. That was my first clue that he may have been talking to me--at me, but he really wasn't "engaged" in the conversations. His feet may have been in The Place, but his mind wasn't.
It all added to his personality. And he does seem to have a tremendous personality. Like that of a sideshow barker.
When I walked out to the main room of The Place, Roy on my arm (literally), Cutter Tom greeted me warmly.
"HOW. Do you do? My NAME. Is Cutter Tom."
"Hi Cutter Tom. I'm Mark."
"Well HELL-looooo Mr. Mark, SO. Glad to make yer acquaintance. What do you want to have DONE. Today?" He says as he draping the cloth over me.
"Well obviously I need my hair cut, but since you asked, can you turn me into an Oriental Love God? My wife would sure appreciate the change up."
He laughs.
"I'll see what I Can do... What I can do.". He pauses for a second, sizing up my head. Then he starts cutting my hair.
It's going well. We're making the appropriate generic level of small talk. The normal "What do you do for a living? That's interesting. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Any kids? Uh-huh. Right. Yeah. Uh-huh." bullshit banter. I could've told him that I club babies for a living, and hunt the elderly for sport and gotten the same response.
I wasn't necessarily there for the conversation. I just wanted a haircut. I got one too. Believe or not, a good one.
A damn fine one!
"Dang Cutter Tom! You almost brought forth the Love God, thanks man. What do I owe ya?"
We settle up, and I leave. All's well.
The Second Time...
A few weeks later, with my "doo" back in shambles, I call Cutter Tom and this time I actually set an appointment. He asks if I can come by later that afternoon.
We agree on 3:00 clock.
I show up right at three. I walk in a have a seat in the waiting chair (The Place's waiting area is a single chair).
The Place is empty.
Before long I hear, "Be right with ya." from behind the curtained door.
Then Cutter Tom comes out and greets me with a warm, over the top, "MR. MARK! My friend. How are you my fine friend?! How are you?"
"I'm well Cutter Tom. Yourself?"
"Never better! Whata WE. Goin' a do today, Mr. Mark?" He says, as he directs me over to his chair (sans the hair wash). As he's draping the cloth over me a different lady walks out from behind the curtain.
She's in her late thirties to early forties*, wearing jeans, heels, and one of those navel showing shirts. The most noticeable thing she's wearing is a "hungry" vibe for Cutter Tom. She wanted Cutter Tom... Bad! She was practically humping his leg.
As she walked out, she and Cutter Tom continued the their conversation from the backroom. He was cool and matter of fact. She was off-the-chart flirty, and full of innuendo. Cutter Tom politely tried to involve me in their conversation. She ignored his attempt. Ignored me.
I didn't even try to speak up. I felt like a voyeur watching all the action play out in the mirror.
He continued to try and focus on his task at hand, my hair. He also tried to keep up with their conversation, all the while deflecting every verbal bump and grind she was lofting his way. After ten or so minutes, their conversation wound down. I think she got the message that his focus had shifted to his job. She told him she had to leave then she kissed him, open mouth, with tongue, on the cheek. It would've been hot if it wasn't so full of skank.
Cutter Tom, the professional, didn't acknowledge the kiss, but warmly told he wished her well as she left.
He quietly resumes focus on my hair.
I'm quiet. He's in the zone.
The only sound in the shop is coming from his scissors.
Finally I break the quiet, "Um... Cutter Tom, if I was interrupting something... I Uh... I'd a been glad to come back later. All you had to do was say the word. I feel like a cockblock, If you'd have told me I would have left in a heartbeat. Ya'll could've had the rest of the afternoon."
"Can't. It's against the code." He says stoically, never breaking focus.
"Code? What code?"
"She's the ex-old lady of one of my riding compadres. That's just something you don't do. Can't do, even if I wanted to. She knows that too."
"Oh. That kind of thing. Speaking of riding, you been on the road lately?"
And our conversation takes flight. He's no longer quiet Cutter Tom, he's back to his self that I first met. He's talking about his Harley and some of the problems he's been having with it. He tells me about a recent roadtrip to Tampa. Then he tells me about when he was growing up in New Orleans. We talk about our families (he has a daughter RZ's age). We talk about music, sports. We're laughing and cutting up (excuse the pun). The haircut is going way long, but no problem, I'm enjoying the time.
We really are having a great, engaging, conversation.
Then the chat lulls.
"So Cutter Tom, how long have you been a biker?" I ask in the same upbeat, conversational tone we've had all along.
Quiet. Cutter Tom stops the scissor action.
He steps back and looks down at me, scissors in his right hand.
"What DO. YOU. Mean by THAT?" He's pissed for some reason.
"What do you mean? What do I mean?"
He takes another step back, pauses, cocks his head back a little bit so he's really looking down, glaring at me now.
"Just what the FUCK. DO. YOU. MEAN. By that? The 'biker' comment."
"I meant, how long have you been a biker? How long have you been riding? How long have you been *of motorcycle*? Estimated timeframe since you became one with your Harley?
Dude, I'm just trying to make conversation." I'm scrambling trying to figure out what I said that pissed him off, and trying to settle him down. He's livid. Thankfully he's put the scissors down by this time.
"So you don't mean that in a bad way?"
"Oh hell no! Do you really think I'd go and try and hack you off when you're holding a pair of scissors an inch from my eyeball? Dude, we're just talking."
He's calming down. He realizes I didn't mean to offend him and I wasn't being judgemntal.
"It's just that 'biker' term has gotten a BAD. Rap. It makes me mad the way PEOPLE. Think of bikers. I guess for me, its like the 'n' word is for African-Americans. Sorry 'bout gettin' all up on ya like that."
Shrugging it off I say "No sweat man. Besides, if I was going to talk about you, I'd talk about you about you behind your back. Not to your face. You'd kick my ass."
Laughing, he asks, "Kick your ass?! What makes you think I'd kick your ass?"
"'Cause you're a bi... ker."
------
In the effort of self preservation, all names have been changed to protect my ass from receiving a proper beat down.
*spelled it right this time.
Sorry Nita. No pictures.
1/27/2005 09:14:30 PM
The "B" word
I got my haircut the other day.
I started going to a new place (salon/stylist/barber whatever) a couple of cuts ago. Given the condition my curly lock is in, I'm usually not too particular. I look for places that are convenient, rather than reputable.
Well this new place is real convenient. Like just a couple of blocks around the corner from my office convenient. Like drop in on your way to lunch and get your hair cut convenient. That's actually how I found the place.
The first time I walked in, I was greeted by a lady who asked "Can I he'p ya?". I told her I needed a haircut and asked if they took walk-ins. She looked at me kind of funny, then she said they did, and to follow her. I noticed when I walked in that The Place (I'm just going to refer to it as The Place for simplicity's sake) was a little rough around the edges. No big deal, I was there for a haircut not for surgery.
So anyway, I followed the lady to the back of the shop. We walked through a curtained doorway, into a small, dim room. The room, more of a closet, had one of those old vinyl salon chairs that leans back, a "hairsink" wash basin and a few towels. She tells me to have a seat, then says "Roy will be with you in a sec".
I sit and wait.
I'm expecting the stereotypical male hairdresser to come swooshing through the curtain any second. Instead, this burly, 55+, balding, bearded, heavily tattooed, pro wrestler of a man who looks a lot like one of the Z's from ZZ Top, only meaner, steps through the curtain and says "Ya want shimpoo?". Caught off guard I answer "uh huh."
So I'm sitting in the chair, reclined, my head in the sink getting shampooed. Roy is multitasking. While he's scrubbing my skull, he's making small talk with me. He's also carrying on a conversation with some other guy (who I haven't met. Yet.) about the finer points of motorcycle repair with duct tape. And he's talking to the lady about the "amazing subtle hues of henner" (henna) that the latest, greatest hair color "product" produced. He used the term "product" like a true metrosexual.
He finishes washing my hair(s), drapes a towel over my head, and politely escorts me out to main room of The Place. I say "politely escorts" because he has grip on my upper left arm much the way a jailer would have on a prisoner.
This is where I meet Cutter Tom.
---to be continued---
1/25/2005 09:57:06 PM
I was up there.
Click here to see the more.
1/24/2005 10:36:16 AM
Quick Bits
Just hittin the tops of the waves...
Happy Birthday "Sweet Child of Mi-ee-ine":
Today is RZ's 14th birthday.
We went light on the celebrations this year, at her request. Just the three of us at home with take-out Mexican food, cake and candles. It was nice.
I cannot tell you how odd it is to think I've got a fourteen-year-old kid. Let alone SAY I've got a fourteen-year-old kid! Its like Fruit Loops and Scotch.
Another couple of odd things I've noticed, she's started listening to Guns and Roses, and refers to me as "Doood" ten times a sentence.
Maybe its just another phase, or maybe that evil rock music has her under its black magic spell. It's of the devil ya know.
----
And what a day it was:
There are parts of my job that I mortally despise. There are parts of my job that don't suck very loud. Then there are parts of my job that I truly love.
The love part happened today. It was "photo day", I got to play pro photographer. Basically photo day is like a field trip. I get to go out and take pictures all day for a client. Usually I wind up shooting boring stuff like land, or a building, or a bunch of lawyers (bet you wish you could say "I shoot lawyers for a living").
Today I got to shoot a high-tech lumber mill. You're probably thinking "lumber mill" big whoop, but it was really cool in a Terminator vs. pine trees sort of way.
The best part of the whole day was the adrenaline rush I got from scaling a 100+ foot crane, while it was still spinning around and going about its crane-ly duties.
I shot over four gigabytes worth of pictures!
I'll write more and post pictures about today later when I'm not so sunburnt and tired. Today rocked.
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Happy Emperor Installation Day:
Ugh. A $40 million dollar pomp, circle jerk. I'm just waiting to hear, "Let them eat cake."
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The Vespa Warrior Update:
Thanks for the well wishes for my dad. He's doing fine, but he's going to be spending several more days in the hospital though. They found a blood clot during the heart cath yesterday so his doc wants to thin his blood down until the clot dissipates. I suggested leeches and a good blood-letting, but that's not covered under his Medicare plan so I was asked to shutup.
But seriously, thanks for the kind words.
----
The Len Update:
My brother is doing well. He started radiation treatments a couple of weeks ago, and his spirits off the chart as usual.
He and I have decided to take a BrotherTrip later on this year. We haven't determined the destination yet, but it really doesn't matter where we wind up, it's more of a journey thing anyway. (sounds like a crappy Hallmark card... sorry.)
Also big thanks for the sympathies, prayers, and well wishes for Len. You'll never know how much it meant.
We're usually not this sick in my family, especially the guys. It's just been back, to back, to back, over the past few months. Before long there'll be a Bursitis Update and a Broke Hip Update.
Getting old blows.
I guess I'll find out next month, when I officially turn old and my mom says "I cannot tell you how odd it is to think I've got a fourty-year-old baby. Let alone SAY I've got a fourty-year-old baby."
1/20/2005 07:56:38 PM
Cooties
I'm at my desk this morning, knee deep in Photoshop, when I get a call. Its Leslie. She tells me my dad's not doing so great, and he and my mom are heading to the emergency room.
To give you a bit of background, last week my dad had a rush heart catherization to clear a blockage. No heart attack, but chest pains from a vein around his thumper that had all but closed off.
So anyway, Les said that my mom was pretty upset (which is rare) and "it'd be a good idea to go and be a shoulder" just in case. My office is just a few blocks from the hospital, so I decide to walk on up.
When I got to the emergency room, I went up to the check-in desk and asked the admissions lady if my dad had made it in. Before she could answer this older lady butts in and tells the admissions lady that her doctor told her to "get in on down here and see a doctor". The admissions lady pardons the interruption, and then she tends to the old lady. Soon she sends old lady on her way, old lady exits stage left. At this point admissions lady directs her attention back to me and tells me that my dad did arrive and they "are working him up". She then asked me to have a seat in the waiting room and I can go back to see him in 15 minutes.
The waiting room is huge. I'm talking 75, maybe 100 seats. Its also uncharacteristically empty, not the usual standing room only I always hear about. There may be 5 people in there, tops. I find a seat. Its out of the way, in the back corner next to a wall.
Old lady walks by.
Old lady walks back.
Old lady walks by again.
(think tennis match)
Old lady walks back again.
Old lady walks by AGAIN!
Then old lady stops. Backs up and walks all the way back to my little corner of the room. She looks down at me, coughs, then sits down next to me. Of all the empty seats in the entire waiting room she plops down right next to me! And stares.
I acknowledge her with a quick smile and a "hello". I'm uncomfortable because the woman is now all up in my personal space, but she seems harmless. Crazy as batshit, but harmless.
She comes back with "Good" *hock* *cough* *croup* "Mornun'", and continues to stare.
"What" *hack-roar-cough* "you here for?"
"Just visiting." I tell her.
"Well I'm here 'cause I got a this pain on my right side, My doctor told me to get here right away, but I told him I was fine, but he said he was going to call an am'blance if I didn't come down here, then I told him ok, I'd go, but I weren't gone a ride in no am'blance 'cause it cost too much, you know how much those am'blances cost nowadays, and I walked down here, I've had this cough for a long time, you know you look familiar, ain't your name Tom? I'm Merna."
She's coughing and hocking phlegm up between every other word.
"No ma'am, not Tom, my name is Mark. Nice to meet you Merna." I don't offer a handshake.
"...and you're right, you've got a terrible cough."
"My doctor, Doctor Stephens, told me to get down here right away and get these doctors to get me a anty-botic, but I hate this place, I ain't never liked coming down here, the people treat you like cows, but you're nice, my doctor wants me to get a anty-botic, he says he thinks I got the viral pneumonia..."
VIRAL PNEUMONIA. More specifically THE VIRAL PNEUMONIA.
She kept talking, but after I heard those two words I couldn't process anything else she said. Merna the nice crazy woman, just turned into a bag of biohazard.
I freak.
While she continues to blather, I find myself breathing in short gulps. I've glued myself to the wall on my left like wallpaper, cowering, trying to (politely) get the hell away from her.
Finally I tell her that I've really got go to find a bathroom and I get up. As I'm walking away she's still talking, coughing, and staring.
1/19/2005 10:35:04 PM
Fun with Watercolors
1/18/2005 08:28:44 AM
Random shots from this week
Click the image for more.
1/16/2005 10:38:42 PM
Overload
You know that feeling, the feeling you had when you woke up on the a day book report was due and you hadn't read the book.
Yeah, it's like that right now.
I didn't want to wake up today.
1/14/2005 09:43:36 AM
Side effects may vary.
I'm feeling incrudibly better, thanks to Leslie and her *connections*. She was able to score me a sampler of some sort of wonder drug.
It's a "Cpak" or "Zpak" or something like that. An antibiotic set of three pills taken once a day, three days in a row.
It's the Holy Trinity if you feel like shit.
Seriously, this is good stuff. I'm only on the second days dose and already I'm coughing less, hockin' smaller chunks, and I generally feel better. By this time tomorrow I'll be ready to benchpress a Mini Cooper.
You know-- back to my old self.
I'm usually not one to take prescription or over-the-counter meds much. I'm supposed to take a baby aspirin a day and I won't even do that. It's the side effects that worry me. The "ever so slight" risk that every drug carries. I saw a Cialis commercial last night and the disclaimer casually mentioned that if you experience an "erection that lasts more than 4 hours, get medical help right away".
Four hours? I mean sure, three and a half hours I can see-- that's natural. But my god, four hours... pass the baby oil, leave the room, and ignore the screams.
"4 hours". My skull would cave in.
But anyway. Tomorrow I'll be finished with the final pill. I'll be back in the game, so to speak.
Feeling fine.
I'll just need to hide the new nipple I've sprouted.
1/11/2005 09:00:59 PM
Undeadish
I'm sick. Not Boo-Hoo sick, but close. It's either a cold, or the early onset of death.
I ooze.
This is a karmic case of the crud. Karmic because less than a week ago I was bragging to somebody that "I haven't had a cold or anything since I started with CPAP. It's been years!"
I should've knocked on wood.
Now, if you'll excuse me. I need to go hock up a chunk of rigor mortis.
1/9/2005 01:23:00 PM
Lost.
I was out taking pictures tonight.
This is the first time in a while I've had a chance to pick up my camera and just get lost.
And get lost I did.
I'm not sure if it was an error in judgement, or subconsciously I was giving the Grim Reaper the finger, but within the first hour of shooting I found myself in a really, REALLY, bad part of downtown. At night.
When I realized where I was, my butt cheeks clinched up and all of my senses went on high alert. I decided to keep shooting and not to nut-up and leave unless something happened. Besides, I was packing heat, if a small can of pepper spray qualifies as *heat*.
Anyway, courage in check, I'm setting up my camera and tripod for the shot above when I notice somebody walking my way.
I keep setting up, but by this point I'm at Defcon 2. I'm only burp away from breaking into Master Karate Warrior mode.
The "somebody" is getting closer.
I'm now checking the exposure settings with my nostrils so I can keep my guard up.
Then the somebody walks up to me and in a friendly voice asks "What ya capturin'?"
That question struck a chord with me. This guy was truly interested in what I was doing. I told him I just liked the spooky feeling of these buildings at night. He nodded his head, and let me get my shot.
Then he started making conversation. (Mind you I'm still on high alert.)
Initially the banter was general small talk, "the warm up before" as I refer to it.
Then he got REAL. He asked me to "pardon" him "for being honest this time but" then he hesitated, and stammered, then finally opened up:
"Look man, I've lied. I've conned. I've thieved. But I do it... I have to do it... Because I'm messed up with, with,..." And he stammered some more.
He went on to tell me about how he's "38 years old, and life ain't 'sposed to be like this" and how he's been on the street for eight months, how he wakes up lost, and how scared he is.
This guy needed to unload, and unload he did. I listened.
He continued on about how he doesn't know what to do, he doesn't know how he got in this "bad a shape". He kept apologizing for "dumpin' all this" on me. I told him it wasn't a problem and kept him talking.
He talked about his family, and how he missed them. He talked about how "regular" people keep away from him, "Some of 'em run. They just run from me."
He talked about dying, in almost a wishful way. He broke down a couple of times.
All in all I say we spent roughly 30 minutes together. Towards the end of the conversation, I said something that made him laugh. Then I said, "Hey man. May the peace of God be with you." (Huh? Where the hell did that come from.)
Soon as I got that out of my mouth, he asked for a hug. (After all that, what was I supposed to say... "no"?)
So there I was, standing on the sidewalk, in the dark, in one of the worst 'hoods in the entire middle Georgia area, hugging a dude.
It was pretty cool.
---
Here are a few of the shots from tonight.
1/6/2005 01:10:23 PM
"I caught you a delicious bass."
We got a chance to see a couple of movies lately.
The Aviator. Great flick, blah, blah, blah.
The other, Napoleon Dynamite.
We've watched it five times over the long weekend. Now the three of us are quoting dialog, dancing, and occassionally lapsing into character. It's great.
The really sick thing is, we could watch it "like infinity" more times.
I haven't been this caught up in a flick since Raising Arizona.
1/3/2005 11:54:04 PM
Lexicon
Do dog breeders have some kind of word fetish?
I was at a breeder/kennel website today and noticed the sheer overuse of the term "bitch".
I know its the appropriate term for a female dog, and I can appreciate the proper use of the word. But my god, six times. SIX TIMES?! And that was just the homepage.
There was:
"...this fine red speckled bitch!"
(Can't they just say "freckled dog"?)
And:
"...Cattle Dog Bitch..."
And:
"...stud dogs, brood bitches, puppies, and foundation bloodlines."
(Pretty much sums up my high school.)
And:
"What a lovely bitch!"
(Backatcha! You beautiful whore.)
And:
"...red German import bitch and Foster..."
And finally:
"Teddy Broodbitch"
(Sounds like an unwanted claim to fame at the Jackson State Penitentiary.)
Maybe it's just the way the dog breeders up their "cred" with their "peeps".
1/3/2005 10:22:47 PM
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